


The Wind and the Sea

by blue_butterfly



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: (very mild but still), Accidents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends, Gen, George is not used to kindness, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Riding accident, Ross is forced to help his enemy, injuries, mentions of a sad and lonely childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_butterfly/pseuds/blue_butterfly
Summary: On a cold and moonless winter night, Ross Poldark has an encounter that has the potential change his life, or at least his attitude towards certain persons, if Ross can manage to jump over his own shadow for once....





	1. Moonless Night (Ross)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is not a shippy fic. Just one where Ross is not an arse to George for a change. At least not as big an arse as he usually is. And George deserves some love and healing. This is set some time around the middle of season 2, before Ross learns of George's proposal to Elizabeth. Forgive the cheesy title, I just thought it sounds good ^^

The night was dark, almost moonless, and utterly hostile.

  
A cold, chilling wind held everything in an iron grip. It whipped angrily against the few large rocks scattered across the plain, flat landscape; sending crumbled leaves and dirt soaring through the air wherever it was met with resistance. Clouds of fog rose from the ground like fingers from a grave, limiting sight to less than a yard ahead. A lone rider on a stalwart horse made his way through this unpleasant night, silent, neither neigh nor whistle nor a hummed song breaking the wind’s ghastly howls. The earth was already showing signs of the coming of winter: a thin coat of frosty spikes that proved treacherous to hooves and boots alike. The animal’s head was bowed low to defy the freezing broadsides that swept over its sturdy body; the rider’s face tucked deeply into the folds of his cloak.

  
The wind bit at his skin, at the few patches that were left exposed: forehead, nose, cheeks. Even his fingers felt frozen despite the gloves he was wearing, and if he hadn’t resorted to moving his toes inside the heavy boots every once in a while, they would surely have fallen victim to the chill. And yet he was lucky. He had a stormlight, a thick beeswax candle encased in an iron box with a glass lid, attached to the saddle of his horse. The small bubble of light helped greatly to mark out the way. He was also wearing several layers of warm clothes, something not everyone could afford these days. In wise anticipation of a change of weather, Ross Poldark had also packed the army cloak. He wore it over his greatcoat, thankful for the additional protection it offered.

  
What a night to be outside! Briefly, Ross mourned his decision to ride home from Truro at such a late hour. He could be tucked away in a comfortable bed at the Red Lion right now, his body warmed by the shine of a fire, his cheeks glowing from the comfort of a glass of good gin. But Demelza would be worried should he not come home tonight. He had been out for too long already, kept by the proceedings regarding the latest developments at Wheal Grace. The negotiations with possible new investors had proved arduous and lengthy, eating his time as the hours of daylight whiled away and he was still stuck in a gloomy room at the inn. Only little time had remained to buy Christmas presents for his loved ones, a printed neckerchief for his wife and a wooden toy soldier for his son, safely stowed away in the saddle bag as poor Darkie marched on towards the comforts of home.

  
A sudden rustling in the thicket next to the road caught his attention. They were passing through a patch of woodland on the way, a grove of moss-covered, gnarled old trees amidst a dense copse of barren blackberry shrubs. There it was again! The rustling sound of someone stomping through the undergrowth. Who else could be out at this time of night, and with what intention? Robbers most likely, having a mind to steal from the one poor traveller who had the misfortune of having to travel alone at night. Ross’ hand slid to his pistol, quietly unlocking it.

  
“Who’s there?” He called out, a smirk tugging at his features as he lifted the pistol from its sheath. He would teach these scoundrels a lesson. How unfortunate for them to come across a former army captain in possession of a firearm.

  
“Show yourself!” he demanded, not in the least intimidated.

  
The rustling stopped for a second, then increased as if someone was rushing towards him. Twigs were snapping, the bushes moved as someone broke through the undergrowth, but the figure that stumbled out of the woods was neither robber nor highwayman, but….

  
“You?!”

  
To Ross’ utmost surprise, the person before him was none other than his old nemesis, George Warleggan.

  
What was the man doing in the middle of the night in a forest, on foot, without any company?

  
“Ross!” George cried out, his voice high and raspy. He came closer, and Ross noticed he was walking with a limp. A ray of dim, pale moonlight broke through the fog, revealing that George was only dressed in a light riding coat and cotton breeches, a shirt, and a waistcoat. No greatcoat, no cloak, nothing else. This was certainly not the suitable kind of outfit for a midnight stroll.

  
“What’s the meaning of this?” Ross demanded to know, tightening the reins as Darkie began to prance uneasily in view of the strange figure.

  
“I w-was t-thrown off m-my horse…” answered George, his teeth clattering as he stepped into the circle of light that came from the lamp at Darkie’s saddle. His hands were bare of gloves, dirty, the knuckles scraped and bloody. A closer look revealed that his coat was indeed torn in many places. His entire clothing seemed in disarray, the breeches stained with mud and ripped at the knees, the black riding boots thickly covered with mud. George wore no hat, his usually neatly coiffed hair was tousled and wild, and his pale face showed streaks of dirt. Ross made out a large gash at the left temple, and another one across George’s nose, crusted with dried blood that looked almost black in the moonlight, as if the night itself was eating away at his skin.

  
Since Ross said nothing, the other man felt prompted to explain. “I w-was o-on m-my way from C-cardew to-to-to T-truro this afternoon. A b-bird f-f-fluttered up, scared my m-mare, and I l-lost control and f-fell.”

  
Ross merely frowned. George Warleggan admitting to losing control over anything, that was a novelty for sure.

  
“I m-must have b-been unconscious for a while. When I w-woke up, there was no s-sign of my horse so I took to walking, but I…I lost my way…”

  
“It’s less than ten miles from Cardew to Truro. You took that path many times, and yet you lost your way?” Ross asked incredulously. He had never thought much of George, but at least he hadn’t considered him stupid - until now.

  
“It’s different when you’re on foot,” George said in unusual demure self-defence. “The landscape looks very different from a horse’s back. And I was slow. I took a wrong turn at the crossroads and walked in the opposite direction for a long while. Then the fog came. I couldn’t see a hand before my eyes. I mistook another path for the right one, noticing too late that it led me straight into the forest. I hoped to make it out of there before dark, but that was just not possible.”

  
“Surely your servants noticed your absence in the meantime and are out looking for you.” Ross said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The great George Warleggan needed to be guided home like a little child, now that was certainly a story to be told.

  
But George just shook his head again. “I didn’t inform anyone at the Truro townhouse of my coming. I didn’t think it necessary, since I reckoned I’d be arriving during daylight. They believe I’m safely in Cardew.” He paused, pulling his torn coat tighter about his shoulders, then looked up at Ross again. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m so glad I met you here.”

  
“Well,” said Ross, shrugging. “I guess you’re lucky. It’s not that far anymore. Truro is less than four miles in that direction.” He pointed over his shoulder, down the way from whence he had come. “Stay right on this track and you can’t miss it. Good night, George.” He tipped his hat and gave Darkie the signal to trot on.

  
The other man looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze and nodded.

“Thank you, Ross.” As George walked away, Ross saw that his limp was worse than first assumed.

  
_None of my bloody business,_ Ross thought to himself and spurred Darkie on, keen to get home. Oh, but Grace Poldark had left her oldest boy with a good heart, and as much as Ross disliked the young banker, he simply didn’t have it in him to let George walk all the way to Truro on foot, injured and unsuitably dressed for inclement weather. What if something happened to him? If he broke down and froze to death somewhere along the way, or died of exhaustion? Briefly, Ross was tempted to just pretend not to have seen anything, not to have met anyone. Who could prove it, after all? If George died, no one would know he had met Ross on the way. If he lived, however…

  
Ah, damn it!

  
Ross contemplated offering him a ration of food and some water for the way, but even that would have been cruel in the face of an injured man who had been wandering through the woods all night. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Ross turned his horse. George hadn’t come far, so Ross caught up easily with him.

  
“You can ride with me if you want,” he said curtly, deliberately not meeting the other man’s eyes. This wasn’t an act of kindness or anything, just simple common decency. And it certainly had nothing to do with George’s person. Oh, how Ross wished that this were someone - anyone! - else.

  
George however didn’t seem to need another moment to consider this offer.

  
“Thank you,” he nodded and came up to the horse. Ross slid back in the saddle to make room for another rider at the front. George held on to the cantle, trying to swing himself up, but his grip was too weak and he slipped. Grudingly, Ross grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up, none too gently, where he landed in the saddle with an unelegant thud and a subdued moan.

  
“Where are we going?” George inquired while shifting into the least uncomfortable position.

  
“Nampara,” Ross answered brusquely, steering Darkie back on the path. Having someone on the horse was a complicated affair, one that Ross wasn’t overly fond of (except when the passenger was his wife, of course). His line of view was partly obscured by George’s head; he had to handle the reins to either side of the other man’s body, making sure Darkie wasn’t getting muddled or abrupt commands, and anyways he was far too close to George Warleggan for his liking. The man smelled of wet earth and damp wool, mixed with sweat, some powerful pomade, a hint of old lavender, and the metallic stench of blood. Ross could have done without this olfactorious symphony; the smell of horse and of his own wet clothes was quite enough for one night. Also, sitting behind the actual middle of the saddle was not doing favours on his own bones, and thus his mood wasn’t exactly improving.

  
Apparently, George sensed his generous saviour’s obvious state of mind, for he said nothing further until they were well on the way and had left the wretched forest behind them. When they reached a crossroad, he finally spoke.

  
“I have a small sum of money on me. I can pay someone at the village to take me in for the night, if you would be so kind as to point me to a suitable house.”

  
That earned him a disapproving snort from Ross. “Do you even know what the folks at the village think about you? They’re more likely to just strangle you and take your money. No, we’re going to Nampara. It’s the closest, anyway.”

  
The fact that George didn’t even try to argue spoke volumes. He must be quite exhausted from the ordeal. Ross himself had no fancy to discuss the matter further, and so they rode on in heavy and uncomfortable silence.

  
Snow began to fall. Tiny ice-stars sneaked into every gap in the clothes. The snow barely touched the ground before melting away, but once Ross had steered Darkie out into the open grassland, the cold wind from the near coast drove masses of finger-thick snowflakes down from the dark skies. Winter had come late this year. Christmas was little more than a week away, but the month had only seen one or two days of snow so far. For weeks, all of Cornwall had been preparing for the cold season, hoarding victuals, boarding up houses and taking the animals inside, but apart from steady torrents of rain, the weather had not changed. Until now.

  
Ross’ hands and toes were starting to prickle. In a way, he was glad for the additional protection that another body so close to him offered. George wasn’t exactly warm, but being chest to back with another living, breathing being gave the illusion of shared warmth at least. Though after a while Ross noticed that George had neither spoken nor moved for quite some time except for a small shiver. Even that had ceased, and so Ross grew concerned.

  
He nudged him slightly, “Are you alright?”

  
“…c-c-cold….” came the answer, no more than a whisper, and laced with such desperation it made Ross almost wince in sympathy. Quickly, he gathered up the folds of his cloak and wrapped the excess fabric around the shivering man, thus enveloping them both in the ample garment. The army knew how to keep its men warm, at least. The cloak left their legs bare from the knees down, but it covered their thighs, arms, hands and upper bodies well. George whispered some words of thanks to which Ross replied with an indifferent grunt. As they rode on, Ross gradually felt the smaller man’s body relax against him as it grew warmer under their makeshift shelter. George’s breathing evened out, and soon his head lolled to the side as he obviously fell asleep, nestled against Ross’ right shoulder.

  
At first, Ross frowned at that and briefly thought about shaking him awake. But what good would it do, waking an exhausted, wounded man from sleep? George seemed so comfortable there, in this oddest of positions, feeling so safe in the arms of his enemy. And coming to think of it, he was indeed safer here on the horse with Ross than in the forest, where all sorts of ugly things could happen to a lone man - robbers, thieves, murderers.

_I may have broken his nose and given him a few bruises in the past, but I would never truly harm him - would I?_

  
Ross could not think of a situation in the past where they had been closer to each other, not counting the few occasions when they had physically fought. This unexpected bodily contact was almost intimate, and while not entirely uncomfortable it still felt foreign, somehow strange. _And yet it was the right thing to do_ , Ross argued with himself. _Should I let him freeze? Should I watch him suffer when I can also help? He is my enemy and I have no love for him, but does that mean I have to rejoice at his misfortune? That wouldn't make me any better than he..._

  
Such were the thoughts that kept his mind occupied until he eventually reached Nampara, where Demelza had already heard the approaching sound of hooves and was rushing out to meet her husband in the yard, her red mane hidden under a thick knitted shawl.

  
“Oh, Ross! I was so worried. This weather…why didn’t you stay at the Red Lion?”

  
Ross gave George a slight nudge before he dismounted and walked up to Demelza, taking her hands in his.

  
“No bed and no hearth fire is like the one at home, my love.” He pressed his lips to her forehead.

  
“But, the snow! Ross, oh, you must be freezing.” She rubbed his cold hands. “Let me prepare a hot bath for you, yes?”

  
He nodded. “Yes, but not for me. I know someone who is in direr need of a hot bath than I.”

He pointed to Darkie, where George was struggling to dismount. With an exasperated sigh, Ross walked over and helped him down. The banker was unsteady on his feet, swaying, the limp even more pronounced than earlier, and if Ross hadn’t seen it coming and grabbed him by the shoulders just in time, George would have landed face forward in the dirt.

Demelza, too, had rushed to his aid, and for the first time she was close enough to recognize the man’s features.

  
“George Warleggan in our house? Are you quite mad, Ross?”

  
“It must appear so,” Ross said darkly, holding the banker upright. “Come, help me get him inside.“


	2. Warm Welcome (George)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gets to warm himself up and take care of his injuries, but there's another encounter that he's not quite prepared for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the rather detailed description of injuries, bruises, and a riding accident.

                

* * *

 

 

George Warleggan stood in front of the steaming tub that had been set up in the living room of the Poldark home; stripped naked, sniffling, shivering in a most unbecoming manner. His pale skin was even whiter than usual, almost like winter had left a dusting of fresh snow on him as well. He was thoroughly chilled through and through. The bitter frost had crept inside his every joint and muscle, and now that he was finally out of the cold, his limbs began to feel like they were on fire - a cold fire deep within the marrow of his bones. Ross' cloak and body warmth on the ride to Nampara had offered sufficient protection to keep George from freezing, but the hours spent outside on foot had taken their toll on him in every possible way.

He was so numb and stiff that he had trouble climbing into the tub at first, for neither his back nor his legs nor his fingers did as he wanted. As he slowly lowered his aching body into the water, he was convinced that no man had ever been happier about the simple comfort of a bath. And it was quite simple indeed. Nothing like the heavily perfumed ritual he indulged in at Cardew, but at this point in his life George would have bathed in a puddle in the street if only it was warm. He slid in, closed his eyes and stretched carefully, probing every limb like it was new to him. Oh, what bliss to feel the blood return to his toes, to his fingers, his face, and especially to his back. If he didn't know any better, he'd have said that even his inner organs were cold.

George inhaled the scent of herbs that had been used to spice the water: rosemary, meadowsweet, linden flowers - old remedies against bone ache and infection. Whether it was for the herbs or not, he was able to ignore the most prominent pain for the moment in exchange for the warmth that spread through his body. The shivering subsided gradually and he allowed himself to stretch and roll like a lazy cat. Indeed, he caught himself letting out a little moan as the muscles in his tense back began to loosen up. Closing his eyes, he gave in to the temptation of just lying there and soaking for a while, doing nothing, even thinking nothing, just relaxing and relishing in this unexpected luxury.

In truth, George had expected to be treated like the lowliest servant. At least that was what he surely would have done in Ross' stead, if he had helped the man at all. But Ross Poldark was a wild card, and once more he had managed to surprise George with that famed and feared unpredictability of his. And now George had ended up here, in this very man's house, enjoying the hospitality of someone he had sought to ruin so often in the past. He wondered what sort of gain Ross might have in mind, for surely there was more behind this than just simple kindness.

As he pondered this he ran a hand across his face, gasping when it came away bloody. He brought up the other one: there were deep red lines crossing both palms. Yes, he remembered: in a desperate attempt to control his bolting horse he had gripped the reins tight, and they had cut through his gloves and slashed his hands. The wounds were filled with bits of earth and dirt.

On a small tray next to the tub he spied a vial of oil; uncapping it with careful hands it turned out to be one whose smell George recognized from childhood. His governess had used it to rub the bruises he sustained so easily, and he remembered an instance when it had to be applied to lacerations he had suffered from another fall.

Rubbing the oil into the cuts on his hands he then cleaned the wounds carefully in the water, struggling not to wince as he picked out clumps of earth and tiny stones.

A small handheld mirror was also on the tray. George picked it up and chanced a look at his face. Oh, how lovely he looked: A nice purple crescent was taking shape underneath his left eye and his nose was swollen and blue, sporting an ugly gash right across the bridge. Still, despite the pain he was able to breathe through it, so it didn't seem to be broken. Scooping up a handful of water he cleaned his face, revealing more cuts and abrasions as the layer of dirt came off.

Bruises of all sizes were blossoming across the rest of his body like purple flowers on pale canvas. The worst was his left shoulder. It was one solid patch of discoloured skin almost as far down as the elbow. George was naturally left-handed, a feature not even uncle Cary's rod had managed to beat out of him despite multiple attempts, and thus he had favoured his left side even in the fall off his horse.

It came as no surprise that the left knee as well as his left ankle had taken damage as well; the knee throbbing and hurting even as he held the leg still, and the ankle swollen to about twice its normal size with a near black mark running across the top of his foot. At least he could tell exactly where that one came from.

George took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to minimize the pain in his chest as he replayed the incident in his mind. What he had told Ross sounded like a harmless little riding accident, but George hadn't been entirely honest....

_An ear-piercing scream rips through the air._

_Something flutters up from the long grass, shrieking madly as it spins upwards, tumbles, then shoots straight up into the air, blindly hitting Kinsman's muzzle before disappearing in the sky. The horse rears up in panic, struggling against reins and rider. George, caught entirely unaware, has a hard time keeping in the saddle. He's holding on just so._

_Another shriek from the bird, high-pitched, wailing. Kinsman leaps, tearing the reins from George's hand. They cut through his gloves, into his hands. Someone else screams, he recognizes his own voice. Hooves thunder on the ground, clumps of dirt are being ripped from the soil. George is yanked back violently, bent like a doll. He loses balance, slips from the saddle - for a terrifying second, he hangs between earth and air at the horse's side - then he falls, falls - prepares to roll away, but he doesn't touch the ground, he can't get loose, he's dangerously close to those thundering hooves - but why...._

_His left boot is hooked up in the stirrup! He can't get it free, he tries, holds on for dear life with one hand while trying to free himself with the other, but his hands are slippery - bleeding - and he can't reach the buckle, he can't.....can't hold on anymore and he lets go...._

_...all he sees is hooves, hooves above him, next to him, around him. Thundering hooves, and clumps of earth; earth in his eyes and ears and mouth, the taste of earth and blood, earth and rocks scraping away the fabric of his breeches, bare skin on earth and more blood as he's dragged along._

_A sharp pain in his head, and everything goes dark._

Hours later he had woken with a pounding head and the feeling that everything inside his body was numb except his eyes and his brain. Realizing that he had had an accident, George had slowly struggled to his feet. There had been no sign of Kinsman, his trusted horse. He had lost his pocket watch in the turmoil, so couldn't tell how much time had passed since. He had ridden out from Cardew at half past one. Forty minutes of riding, give or take, then the accident - scantily daylight when he woke, so maybe he'd been on the ground for roughly two hours? That he hadn't frozen then and there was close to a miracle.

And then the odyssey through the woods. Of course George would never admit it to anyone, but he was afraid of the dark. As a child, his uncle had thought it a lesson to lock him in a pitch-black cabinet downstairs in the servant's quarters. Years ago a maid had hanged herself in that same cabinet. Uncle Cary always came up with all sorts of gruesome stories about how her ghost would haunt George if he wasn't "good". He had been good, tried his best at least, but the only thing that haunted him to this day was a profound resentment of dark corners, of darkness altogether, and it was the reason why George, as one of the first town, had invested in two expensive Argand lamps.

The forest had brought him to the edge. Throughout his childhood George had been repeatedly taught not to show any outward sign of weakness. In truth, he was not without his own kind of strength. His physical qualities could not compare to someone like Ross, but George had learned to adapt to that pretty well. Where others used brute muscle power to achieve a short-lived effect, George relied on ruthless determination and his ability to remain focused until the job was done. Constant bullying and snide remarks from people who considered themselves better had forced him to develop a certain kind of mental toughness very early on.

The forest had almost broken that spirit. There had been moments when he just wanted to sit down and give up. With every passing minute, it became clearer that he had lost the way and wouldn't be back to the comforts of home so soon. Tears had filled his eyes, of desperation, hunger, fear, pain. But a true Warleggan never cried, and so he had just stared ahead with dry eyes and hoped that somehow there would be a way out of his predicament; and he was ashamed for having come so low, wondering whether a merciful end by the hands of the gruelling cold wasn't preferable over sullying the family name with his shortcomings.

And then Ross Poldark, of all people, had answered his prayers.

On cue, the door swung open and George almost jumped out of his skin. The sudden intruder was not the man of the house, however, and neither his charming wife nor his grisly manservant, but the sluggish creature known as Prudie. George's eyes grew wide and his jaw tight as the squarely-built woman ploughed into the room. Instinctively he drew up his knees, curling in on himself. What was she doing, barging in unannounced on a gentleman in his bath? This was hardly proper!

"Mistress pick'd out sum o' Cap'n Ross' ol' stuff for ee," she drawled and dropped a bundle of clothes onto a nearby footstool. "Might be a bit too big for ee, but 's t'e best we 'ave."

George nodded tightly once he was sure he had figured out the woman's horrible accent. A nod from a gentleman was the sign for a servant that he or she was being dismissed, but Prudie did not make any move to leave the room. Instead, she grabbed a large towel from a rack in front of the fireplace. She unfolded it and held it out like a war flag. "Get out."

"What?" George peeped up. Surely she wouldn't ask him to....

"Get out o' t'e tub so I can rub ee off."

"You cannot be serious...."

"'m bloody serious, sur. Mistress says t' help ee get dressed, but we don't 'ave no servant for tha'. So poor Prudie gets to do t'e job, or do ee want me 'usband t' help ee out, or t'e Cap'n 'imself?"

"God forbid," George mumbled, shuddering at the thought of Ross or, worse, Jud Paynter seeing him in this sorry state.

With a sigh, he rose from the tub. He was rather sure Prudie had seen her share of naked men, but he covered himself with his hands nevertheless, duly fading out the embarrassment and the humiliation of being so treated. In the past hours he had been stripped of everything: his dignity, his pride, his self-esteem, and even his clothes. What shame was there now in letting go of the last bit of modesty as well.

Prudie was four times the size of him in girth, and for a woman she was strong like an ox. George had difficulties staying on his feet as she dragged the towel up and down, spinning him around like a doll. _Stretch yer arms out!_ she commanded, pushed him, pulled him, rubbed him down and up and down again.

 _Arms down, turn around!_ and she ran the towel through his hair and across his face. He opened his mouth to protest, caught a mouthful of fabric, coughed and swallowed the words. The way she treated him he felt like a helpless kitten being tumbled around in a sack. In truth, he wasn't in good enough shape to put up a lot of resistance anyway. The warm, steamy water had made him dizzy in the head, and despite the warming up moving his limbs seemed nigh impossible as his entire body was strangely weak and powerless.

Ross' female servant wasn't exactly gentle with him either, scrubbing at his skin until it was red, but George figured that that was more of a character trait and had nothing to do with him personally, for once. She jostled his injured shoulder a bit too hard and he couldn't help but wince at the pain it caused him. Prudie noticed, and her movements as well as her tone became a bit less rough.

"Skinny as a bag o'bones are ee, sur." She clicked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly while pinching him lightly in the side. George suppressed an undignified yelp and put on a brave, although increasingly desperate face.

Prudie finished her work, put the towel away and grabbed a shirt from the pile she had brought in earlier. Anticipating the action, George quickly held out his arms and allowed her to pull the garment over his head, all the while she continued her sermon.

"Thin as a stick. Need t' eat more, I says, an' 'ealthy food, not them fancy dishes that are jus' for t'e eye. Mistress made some soup, ee better go an stuff ee face while ee can."

The thought of food sounded tempting indeed. His last meal had been a light lunch before he left, since he had expected to be in Truro in time for tea. Hunger had been the least of his worries while out in the wild, but now that his life functions were returning, so was the empty feeling in his stomach.

Eventually he managed to dismiss the woman. Putting on the rest of the clothes wasn't easy with his injuries, but god he would rather endure the pain before bearing the embarrassment of having Prudie come face to face with his crotch while helping him into his breeches.

Well, strictly speaking they were Ross' breeches. They were much too wide for George and slightly threadbare, but at least they were warm and comfortable. Ross' old shirt, skilfully mended in many places, was so large that George felt like someone had wrapped him in a ship's sail. There was a grey waistcoat to go with it and a pair of good but simple woollen stockings. Dressed like this and with a pair of slippers on his feet instead of proper shoes he looked nothing like the gentleman who had ridden out from Cardew this afternoon. Thank god none of his friends could see him like this, wearing the clothes of a farmhand instead of his usual finery. Then again, he began to wonder whether he had any real friends at all and if any of them would have lent him warm clothes as well.

He took a look at himself in the mirror. Without the trademark curls and the usual amount of pomade, his hair kept falling into his face. It was straight and rather plain, not as long as Ross', but long enough to catch it in a short ponytail at his nape, so he tore a strip off his own ruined neckcloth and tied it back.

He looked odd, not at all like the carefully groomed image he desired others to have of him, but for now this would have to do. With a deep sigh, he turned away from the tub and left the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argand lamp = Invented and patented in 1780 by Swiss physicist Aimé Argand. This new type of oil lamp was brighter than earlier lamps, delivering as much light as 6 - 10 candles would. It required less frequent trimming of the wick and was safer to handle. These new lamps were complex and costly and were first adopted exclusively by the well-to-do.


	3. Table manners (Demelza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross is brooding, Demelza is trying her best, and George - to everyone's surprise - is unexpectedly uncomplicated.

 

* * *

 

Preparing an impromptu meal for a late-night visitor had not been on Demelza's agenda at all. She had set aside a portion of the hearty stew she had made for dinner; knowing her husband, she had almost expected Ross to make his way home despite the grisly weather, but she had not anticipated an extra mouth to feed, and such a pernickety one at that.

George Warleggan's unexpected arrival put her into a rare dilemma. She had used all the better ingredients - vegetables and such - for the stew, and while the pantry was far from being empty, Demelza had intended to stock up on fresher groceries at the village tomorrow. Now with such an exalted guest in the house, she found herself in need of a meal both quick and also somewhat outstanding. Fretting, Demelza raided the shelves for supplies to turn into an emergency dinner, but came up with little else than some carrots, a few turnips, and some of the last potatoes of the season. Nevertheless, she managed to make a thick, creamy soup from these ingredients, seasoned with leek, and she was going to serve some bread and cheese with it. It would have made a delicious meal for herself and Ross, or for Jud and Prudie, but for one such as Warleggan? True, the man looked exhausted and worn out, but who said he wouldn't be back to his old spiteful self once he had sufficiently warmed up in the bath?

_Surely it's not good enough for someone such as he, who eats imported French food from silver platters,_ she thought with disdain. _Maybe I should not have made anything at all and let him go hungry._

As she set the table, she felt no small amount of glee over the fact that her husband's greatest foe had to dine with the rabble for once.

Ross entered, in waistcoat and shirt, the sleeves rolled up despite the wintery weather. He looked dark, brooding, as always when he was in thoughts, although this time Demelza knew exactly what sort of thoughts they were. He sat down at the table and Demelza fetched his bowl with the stew, which had been kept warm on the stove, and handed him a spoon before sliding onto the bench opposite him. He ate in silence without looking up, so she just sat and watched him for a while.

"Did you have to bring him here?" She asked in the end, when it was clear Ross would not broach the matter.

"What was I supposed to do?" Ross said between two bites, grabbing the bread to tear off a small piece.

Demelza shrugged. "Take him someplace else? Someplace not here?"

"I wish. But I was already too far from Truro to ride back there, and then all the way home again. Darkie wasn't fresh enough for that. And I was tired, too. It has been a long day."

There were first signs of weariness in his voice; signs that told her he was not in the mood to argue or explain his reasons, be they as good or bad as they wanted.

"Couldn't you just....oh I don't know, give him some food or money or a cloak and send him on his way?"

Ross put his spoon on the table and looked his wife straight in the eyes. "I thought about that at first. But then I saw his injuries and the state he was in. It would've been...unkind of me to forsake him."

"What has _he_ ever cared about that? He has been unkind to you whenever he could. He tried to ruin you, to get you hanged even! Why should _you_ show kindness, of all people?" She had talked herself almost into a frenzy, reliving with her inner eye those horrid moments when her husband had had to stand trial at court for his life.

Ross said nothing, merely shrugged and looked at her with eyes as dark as the sky outside. She knew she was not going to get an answer out of him tonight.

"You could have ridden to the village and alerted someone to go back and help him," she made one last, half-hearted attempt.

Ross shook his head. "You have not seen him, Demelza. His injuries. The state he was in. I've known George all my life and I've never seen him like this...." He broke off, whether it was for a distant memory of days past, or something about the recent incident she could not tell. _I've known George all my life,_ he had said, and god, yes, it was true! She had never given much thought to it, but indeed it struck her all of a sudden that there were people who'd had the privilege of knowing Ross for longer than her, Demelza's, marriage had lasted so far, or even longer than all her years of life. George Warleggan was such a person. Had they been closer as children, she wondered, maybe even friends, and what twist of fate might have brought this enmity between them? Was Ross thinking back to older, happier days? To something that connected him with George that Demelza would never know of? For all she could tell, she had never learned the true reason for the bad blood between those two men, if such a reason existed at all. Caught in these thoughts, she had to focus when Ross eventually continued.

"Had I left him to fend for himself, even with a ration of food or water, or a blanket - I would not have vouched for his survival, Demelza. I don't think he'd have made it back into Truro. Believe me, I went over all the choices I had. I was already on my way again, but I couldn't...I just couldn't do it. He needed help, and I was the only person who was there. Bringing him here was the best I could do under these circumstances."

Demelza put her hand atop Ross', squeezing slightly. She was still surprised that her husband would show such kindness to a man who had caused him nothing but distress in the past. However, Ross was ever unpredictable, inconsistent in his course of action, ultimately answering to no one but his own conscience. What did occur to her was another option, one that hadn't yet been mentioned, and although she sensed Ross wanted the topic over and done with, she couldn't help but ask.

"Why didn't you take him to Trenwith? It would have been en route and Elizabeth of all the Poldarks has always held the greatest affection for George."

Stunned, Ross looked at her. "I could have done that," he said and nodded slowly, the idea just yet dawning on him.

"Then why didn't you?"

"I don't know. To be honest, I didn't even think of it at the time." He paused, then sighed. "Besides, I could hardly do that. Come barging into Trenwith late at night, dropping him off like some bundle I found on the street. No, I took responsibility when I decided to offer my help, so it is my duty to go through with it." He paused again, and from the look in his eyes alone Demelza knew that she was not going to like what he said next.

"And you know how Elizabeth has been struggling as of late. She's barely managing. Trenwith, the estate, the debts and all that. And she has Geoffrey Charles and Agatha to provide for, too. I wouldn't want to worsen her situation by burdening her with an unwelcome guest."

"We're struggling, too, Ross. Not least thanks to George!"

"Yes, yes, I know that. But we manage better than Elizabeth does. And it wouldn't be proper, either: a widow and an unmarried young gentleman under one roof for the night, unsupervised...." He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"So?" Demelza prompted. "What'd you think he'd do? Make advances? Break into her bedroom?"

"You know what I mean."

"Not quite, no."

"Oh Demelza! God knows such an event would only give rise to gossip. People are horrible when it comes to that."

"I doubt they would have reason to. As you said, George considers himself a gentleman. He wouldn't do anything to put that status at risk. You can't stop the gossip anyway. About Elizabeth, about George, about what they supposedly did or did not. There's no avoiding it. People talk, and people forget again. There'll also be gossip about George staying with us as soon as people get wind of it; you may lay to that. What do we care? What do _you_ care? You've never been one to heed such idle talk."

"Idle talk may easily ruin someone's reputation for good," Ross said darkly. "And besides, I wouldn't want George anywhere near Geoffrey Charles either. God knows he might be able to get the boy to talk about things that are none of George's business."

That seemed a true, valid reason, and yet Demelza could not get rid of the impression that it was mostly Elizabeth's reputation that Ross was seeking to protect.

_What do you care about it,_ she wanted to shout. _What do you care about her? Elizabeth is mistress of her own affairs. She never asked for your help, and she never offered hers when we were in need._

She said nothing.

"Look," said Ross, putting an end to the matter. "I'm not happy either to have him under this roof, but for now we have to come to terms with the situation. Tomorrow I will send word to his loathsome uncle, and we sure shall be rid of him by the afternoon."

She sighed again. "I made a bed for him in the library."

\------

George Warleggan ate with a healthy appetite and not one word of complaint about the simple meal. In Ross' mended clothes and with the ponytail he looked like a starved young peasant; only his pale skin gave away that he was not exposed to outdoors work.

He talked little, probably because Ross watched him with a gloomy expression from across the table. Stripped of his finery and all the insignia of his wealth George seemed subdued, shy even. His manners though were perfect. He said _please_ and _thank you_ , he used the napkin to wipe his fingers, took artful little sips from his wine and toasted _to your health_ when raising the glass; something Demelza had only ever encountered at the few banquets or balls she had been invited to, for Ross, despite being trained in such matters, hardly ever saw it necessary to use them.

Jud came in, swaying as usual from too much drink and openly staring at the surprise visitor; and when Jinny was called in to bring more wine, the young maid couldn't hold back a gasp. Demelza remembered a time when those were the reactions she herself had garnered, especially after being seen in Truro with Ross, when he had bought that red sateen cape for her. What am I, a circus attraction? she had yelled at some fine gentlemen, no doubt embarrassing Ross to the bones. By the way George was squirming on his chair, she could tell he probably felt similar, being gaped at by the entire Poldark household.

"Thank you, that was excellent," he said after finishing his plate, and then, to Ross, "May I ask you to send a messenger to my uncle? He'll surely dispatch a carriage presently."

Ross looked ready to strangle him on the spot, but Demelza knew it was her husband's neutral expression.

"Do you really think I'll send someone outside in this weather?" Ross replied pointedly, indicating the general direction of the window. It was still snowing outside, not very heavily, but George could probably imagine the implications, for he shivered.

"I'll send word to your uncle first thing in the morning, when the weather's clear. There'll still be enough time for a carriage then. For now, I'm afraid you must make do with our hospitality." He stressed the last words on purpose. Poor George looked so stricken, Demelza almost felt pity for him.

As the evening progressed, the women gathered at the fire for some needlecraft while Ross sat with Jud, discussing repairs he wanted to have done at the stable. George remained on his chair and never said a word, just looking thoughtfully into the flames while inching ever closer to the fire. For a long while Demelza paid no heed to him, busy as she was with her tambour embroidery, though when she next looked, he seemed unusually yellow-faced, shaking, his eyes darting nervously about, and it was quite clear that he was not well. Concerned, she put away her work and got up to speak to him.

"Are you not well, sir?"

Blinking, he looked up, his eyes feverish. "I...I think I may have eaten a bit too much earlier..." He was getting paler by the minute, hands shaking as he ran them across his face. Demelza noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Maybe you should lie down," she suggested.

"Yes...yes, I probably should. I am also..." He rubbed his brow, covering his swollen eye with the palm of his hand. "My head is hurting," he said in the end, weakly, the pain discernible in his slurring voice.

Their little exchange caught Ross' attention as well. He came over, inquiring what was the matter. While Demelza still explained, George began to slide sideways from his chair, caught himself at the last minute, then held on to the table as he slowly managed to stand on shaking feet. By now he was as white as a bucket of chalk and Demelza, fearing the worst, nudged her husband in the side.

"Ross!"

"What? Oooh....no!" He protested when he finally understood what she meant.

Exasperated, she nudged him again. "Go on, help him!"

Grumbling, Ross grabbed the shaking bundle by the waist. George was leaning heavily on him, limping, hardly able to support himself as Ross hauled him up the stairs in a rather ungracious fashion.

Demelza heard muffled voices from above, creaking, the sound of a door - then Ross came back down, looking sullen.

"So? Did he complain about the primitive bed?"

Ross let out a huff. "No. He went out like a light as soon as he touched the mattress."

Exhausted, Demelza sank into her chair. By this time tomorrow, everything would be back to normal.


	4. Healing Hands (George | Demelza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night at Nampara, the Poldarks are more than happy to get rid of their unwelcome guest - especially since there's another incident where George insults the mistress of the house. However, things are not what they seem and both Ross and Demelza have to learn to overcome their prejudice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of injuries, bruises, and wound treatment.

George rolled onto his side, a content sigh escaping him as he burrowed deeper into the warm blankets, wrapping himself in them until not an inch of his skin was uncovered, save for his face. Oh, the bliss! Even though it was a simple bed that he was lying down on -far away from the carved and gilded fancy four-poster he was used to - he had never rested more comfortably than in the small cot that had been put up for him in Nampara's library.

At Cardew, George slept in silken sheets sprayed with lavender essence, covered by an eiderdown duvet and a costly spread so heavily embroidered with metallic thread that it almost suffocated him, and still he was freezing on most nights since the large room took ages to warm up. Here, three different blankets and a quilted coverlet had been heaped atop a straw-filled mattress for warmth, and the cot had been shifted next to the fireplace. A pair of slippers, simple but warm, were on the floor next to it, and a carafe of clear water and a glass had been placed on a small stand. All of this had been done not because somebody was ordered to, but because somebody hadn't wanted him to be cold or thirsty.

He had also been given a separate shirt for the night, this one with fine pleating at the shoulders and wrists, and delicate embroidery around the neckline. Poldark's best, for sure. All in all, he felt warm, cared for, and content. George pressed his face into the bedding, breathing in. It smelled nice, clean. That distinctive scent of linen that had been hung out in the sun to dry. Once, as a child, a maid had told him that the sheets caught the sun's rays in their fibres, and he had spent a few hours in wide-eyed, naive amazement trying to figure out how that could happen. He smiled at the memory. Those days seemed so long gone.

His mind was providing him with images of happy washerwomen humming songs and lazy bumblebees tumbling through the sunny sky, but those were the recollections of a stranger, certainly not George's. His growing up had been far from such a happy affair, but he figured this was the type of childhood Ross might have had: carefree, easygoing, unrestricted. Yet another feature to probably envy him for, but George decided that now was not the time for spiteful jealousy. He was too tired for that, anyway.

Drifting in and out of sleep he lay there, glad that yesterday's horrible adventure had taken such an unexpected turn. Later today he would call for a carriage to take him to Truro, and at the end of the day the episode would be but a margin in the course of events. If done smartly, Uncle Cary needn't even learn about the incident. The old man had been in a rather foul mood when George left; talk of an accident would certainly not help to improve it. Cary never took well to bad news, especially of the financial sort, and a horse lost and a good set of clothes ruined was most assuredly qualifying as such.

 _Idiocy_ was the main reason why things went wrong according to Cary Warleggan's world. People were idiots for spending money where they had none, and for borrowing it when they couldn't pay it back. They were idiots for having qualms, or a conscience, or for not being ruthless enough. Of course, anyone falling off his horse and wasting the better part of the night stumbling through a forest must be an idiot as well. Even though nothing of that was George's fault, Cary would still ascribe it to his nephew's _carelessness_.

George sighed and shifted. On cue with the thoughts about his uncle, the pain came back. He had hoped that a good night's rest would be enough to cure the lesser ailments, such as the headache or the pain in his joints, and he would bear away nothing but some bruises from the incident. As it was, however, a secret force behind his forehead was pounding away like a possessed madman, the pain both sharp and dull, both like a drumming and a stabbing, reaching from one ear to the other as if a hot needle was being forced into his auditory canal, driven through his brain, and gouging out his injured eye on the way. In cruel union with this torture, his ankle began to throb again, both injuries mocking him extensively for even _thinking_ that he was fine.

A few moments ago, he had thought about getting up and venturing downstairs; this was entirely impossible now. He lay there breathing hard when liquid fire shot up his back, and his teeth began to clatter as he was alternately feeling hot and cold. The smell of cooking came from downstairs, and while certainly pleasant under different circumstances, it now made him nauseous. He hated this state of being, when the mind was unaffected but the body was frail, and any great thoughts were hindered from coming to fruition by the limits of failing health and idle dawdling. He had watched his father waste away like this during the last months of a long and cruel illness; a brilliant mind stuck in a weak, decaying body. George was afraid this same fate might befall him one day.

So, as soon as the nausea and the dizziness subsided for a bit he struggled out of bed, for the pain would not go away whether he was lying down or on his feet. It was way past any decent time judging by the light that came through the windows. He did not want to trouble his hosts any further, for one, and also there was business waiting to be done. He dressed in stockings and breeches and put on the warm slippers, rinsed his mouth and fixed his hair with a few quick fingerstrokes. He tied it back with the same makeshift ribbon he had used yesterday. His ankle gave him great pain, but he bit his lips and padded out of the library. Once in the corridor he heard sounds coming from the kitchen, talking and laughing and domestic clatter, mixed with the babbling of a child and the wispy notes of a song. George steeled his expression and began the long descent down the stairs.

\-----

Demelza had been up for several hours at this point. She had made breakfast, taken care of Jeremy, seen Ross off to the mine, and done the better part of her chores for the day. With Jeremy now playing devotedly with some toy soldiers and horses on the floor and Jud and Prudie outside cleaning the stable, Demelza finally had some time to let her mind wander. She was preparing a dough for making pies later that afternoon, something she could do without having to pay much attention to her own hands: this particular recipe she had made so often she could do it in her sleep. Humming a little tune, she looked out of the window. The weather had somewhat cleared, but there were ice flowers on the window glass and the snow on the ground outside had turned into a hard crust of ice and dirt. New flakes had started to fall, tiny yet but steady and numerous. Soon there would be a layer of new snow atop the ice, making it dangerous for man and beast alike to venture outside. She hoped Ross was going to be careful on his way home.

She didn't often have the house all to herself. Well, almost to herself, but Jeremy was so absorbed in his playing that it almost felt like she were alone. She began to sing the first words of an old Cornish song, long forgotten by most, and those who remembered were growing scarce. She worked like this for a while until the sudden sound of another person had her look up, alert for the moment, until she remembered the unusual guest Ross had brought home last night.

George Warleggan stepped into the kitchen, looking pale and unusual, although his demeanour gave nothing away but the haughty arrogance she had seen so often in the past.

"Good morning," she said, keeping her voice neutral on purpose and, not waiting for a reply, made room for him to sit on the bench next to the tiled stove, the warmest place in the house. He took the invitation, and awkward silence fell while Demelza prepared a small breakfast of cheese and bread. She had nothing to say to him and he not to her. Singing was out of the question now for she wanted to spare herself his looks or his comments, and so she kept working until at last the silence became too heavy and she thought of something polite but innocuous to say.

"How did you sleep?"

He looked slightly startled, blinking a few times and clearing his throat. "I.. well, I...i-it could have been better....-"

The answer surprised her for its rudeness, and on the other hand it didn't. The bed she'd hastily prepared was simple, a straw-filled mattress on a wooden frame, a few blankets and a pillow thrown on top; certainly nothing like the fancy bedding one such as he was used to. Still, a polite person would not have mentioned it in the presence of the host, but as it seemed, George Warleggan couldn't be bothered to at least fake politeness. He simply could not hold back a snide remark, even though he'd been met with nothing but kindness. Next, he would probably launch into yet another tirade about what qualities she and Ross and their home were lacking, and proceed to mock her for being nothing but a kitchen wench, as per his usual routine. Deciding she didn't want to hear any of that she cut him short mid-sentence.

"Well, I'm sorry this isn't a palace, your lordship, but then I don't recall you receiving an invitation anyway." She slammed the breakfast plate onto the table next to him where it landed with a bang, sending bread and cheese a-flying into the air. With grim pleasure she noticed that he flinched.

Oh, what a mistake to think that George Warleggan was ever going to change! He could fall on his head for all she cared and even that wouldn't make him a better person. She went back to kneading the dough, fuming with anger, glad that she could turn her back on George lest her rage be fuelled by having to look at his very presence in the room.

The door opened and Ross stepped inside, covered in dust from the mine, his greatcoat buttoned up against the cold. Peeling it off he tossed it over the back of a chair, then went to greet his wife and his son. He noticed George on the bench and threw him a curious glance. He said nothing, and neither did George, but the two men exchanged a brief nod.

"How's our guest doing?" Ross enquired, talking to Demelza more than to said guest, but watching George's every move.

George blushed to the roots of his hair under such scrutiny, putting down the cheese he had been nibbling on as if he had been caught stealing from the dinner table.

"I see you made him breakfast?" Ross said again to Demelza.

"I did, but I'm sure it won't be to his liking either, just like the bed."

"He complained about the bed?"

She nodded angrily, still too fuelled up to recount the incident to Ross.

George had remained strangely quiet throughout the exchange, neither arguing the case nor trying to defend himself, nor offering spite as would be expected. Indeed, he seemed to shrink in a little on himself, drawing up his shoulders as Ross' intimidating frown came to rest upon him.

"Well, how good that you don't have to endure another night under such horrible conditions," Ross said sharply. "Your horse has been found, you're welcome to take your leave."

For the first time, George met the other man's gaze. "Oh? Kinsman? That's...good news. Who found him, and where?"

"At a farm in Sawle. A shepherd caught him earlier this morning in the field next to the churchyard."

"Is he well?"

"Worn out from reckless riding, but otherwise uninjured," Ross said with a hint of malicious glee. Always the one being accused of recklessness, he couldn't help this small dig at George's horsemanship, even though it was probably unfair.

"I rode over to Sawle and fetched him. Jud is rubbing him down and feeding him. By mid-afternoon he'll be ready and rested."

"Thank you," George replied, voice subdued and looking somewhat overwhelmed, but Ross wasn't paying attention to him anymore.

"Did you know the Curnows have taken sick?" he said to Demelza, sitting down at the table and grabbing a piece of bread from a basket.

She looked up. "Both of them?"

"It seems so," said Ross, munching on his bread.

"Judas. I knew Helen hadn't been well for a while, but now John, too?"

Ross nodded tightly. "That little girl of theirs...."

"Charlotte? Is she sick, too?"

"Not yet. Dwight is with them. He says she has a healthy disposition so maybe she won't catch it. But, you know they have no one to take care of the cottage except that elderly aunt who isn't well herself...."

Demelza caught her husband's intentions and nodded. "I'll go and see them later today if the weather permits. Do some cleaning around the house. I'll also bring them some broth, and lungwort. That helps against stubborn colds."

"With your help and Dwight's, they'll sure be back on their feet in no time. Now, let me see how Jud is faring with the horse," Ross gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and grabbed his coat, almost tripping over Jeremy's toys as he went out.

Demelza was still looking after him, having almost forgotten about George, when the banker suddenly addressed her.

"Mistress Poldark?"

Stunned at the title she turned around to face him. What was he up to now? He had so often mocked her in the past with this false friendliness. His face never gave anything away, but the look in his cold blue eyes always spoke volumes about his opinion of her place in society.

"I must apologize for my earlier mishap. Clearly, the pounding in my head is tainting my wording," he said, looking to the floor.

"What?"

"I meant, my sleep could have been better if it weren't for the headache. And the pain in my foot. It wasn't the bed," he looked up again, meeting her eyes, and attempted a small smile.

"The bed was very comfortable. And at first I slept deeply, but I woke up at some point and made a wrong move, and from then on I did not know what side to turn on because....everything just hurts." That last part came feebly, on a shaking breath.

Looking him over for the first time since he had come down, Demelza took his words to be the truth. In broad daylight, his injuries were worse than she had acknowledged. He was pale, with dark rings underneath his good eye and a map of bruises strewn across his face. He held his left arm cradled against his chest, his hands covered in cuts, and since there was no neck stock, she saw more bruises crawling up from the open collar of his shirt. The skin around the swollen other eye had changed from blue to almost black, and the cut on his nose stood out in morbid contrast to the whiteness of his complexion. Fading freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, almost hidden underneath the wound. He looked incredibly young, like a boy of thirteen more than a man of thirty.

 _He must be in dire pain_ , she thought, and immediately felt a pang of regret for having been so nasty to him.

"Do you want me to look at your foot?" she offered, for she did not know what else to say. "I could bandage it if you wish."

"That would be very kind of you," he whispered.

Demelza fetched some clean bandages and remedies that she had made and stored this summer from various herbs, oils and flowers. There were always injuries to be treated, be it that Jeremy banged his arm somewhere, Prudie burnt her hand on the stove, or Ross returned scratched and bleeding from the mine. Demelza arranged her tools, knelt on the floor and asked George Warleggan to take off his stocking and place his foot in her lap, which he did with a heavy blush.

 _No surprise that this hurts_ , she thought as the ankle was revealed: it was swollen, reddish, and proved extremely sensitive to the touch. How he could walk with such an injury was beyond her. Apparently, he was not quite as weak as Ross liked to paint him all the time.

After soaking the foot in a bowl of warm water to which she added a few drops of clove oil, she rubbed it dry and covered it with a thin spread of a balsam made of arnica and horse chestnut. Lastly, she chopped up a few cool lettuce leaves and spread that on the injured area, wrapped a bandage around it and asked him to rest his leg in an elevated position. As the poultice grew warm, she explained, the lettuce would release components that would bring the swelling down and dim the pain. It would then have to be changed and the process repeated. In addition to that, she also treated the many small cuts on his hands and bandaged those as well.

When she got up and came level with his face, she noticed that the pupil of his left eye was dilated, blown so wide that the iris was almost swallowed up by it, while the right eye's pupil was small as a pinhead and appeared fixed. Waving a hand very close in front of his face, she asked him about his vision.

He blinked a few times. "I can see, but it's somehow...out of focus. Blurred. As if there was a thin veil in front of my eyes."

"Maybe you should rest some more before you go home," Demelza suggested. "You cannot ride with that ankle, anyway."

"I was thinking to send word for a carriage."

"Yes, but I would still recommend you get some rest before that. Maybe it would be good if Dr Enys examined you, too. I'm going over to Mr and Mrs Curnow's cottage soon and will meet him there, I can ask him to come and take a look at you."

"That's very kind, but I am sure a bit of sleep will suffice for a refreshment. I do not wish to trouble you further."

Demelza shrugged. "Your choice."

She went back to her chores, putting the medical supplies away, readying Jeremy for his afternoon nap, and folding some of Ross' shirts. George seemed to be dozing on his bench, leg stretched out on a footstool she had brought him, until he suddenly blinked his eyes open and made to stand up.

"I am going to lie down for a while, as you suggested," he informed her. "I'm feeling a bit feeble, and the light hurts my eyes." He slowly limped towards the stairs.

He hadn't yet made it halfway up when he missed a step, slipped, grabbed in vain for a hold, and fell down backwards in a dramatic tumble, landing on his back on the kitchen floor with a loud, pained groan.

Demelza dropped her handiwork and rushed to his side at once. He was not unconscious, but it worried her to see that the wound on his nose had opened up again, spreading blood all over his face. The state of his pupils had not changed, and his eyes were clouded with a confused look, as if he didn't know what had happened.

This second fall, although not severe, surely wouldn't help advance his healing. A healthy person may have just stood up, but George had been injured before and the accident might have aggravated his condition.

"I think I shall call for Dr Enys after all," Demelza said with a sigh.

This time, she was not met with resistance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lettuce? Ah yes. That was indeed a thing. Lettuce is "is rich in lactucin, a calming alkaloid and it has sedative properties." Also, it has anti-inflammatory qualities.


End file.
